Friday, February 21, 2014

A Dream Date with Death

Note: This is the straight
transcript of a dream I had a few years ago. Just woke up, crawled to the iMac
and started typing. Admiral Karen came in to see what I was up to, I gave her
the Boris Karloff in Frankenstein voice (uurRHH!) and she left me alone
until I got it all down and hit "post".

This is the dream in which Death takes me to lunch.

We meet on the sidewalk outside of a fancy restaurant. We are dressed in
black tie, tails and top hats. Death looks and speaks like John Gielgud in the
movie "Arthur". He makes a rattley noise as he walks. We bow to each
other, the door opens, and Death waves me in ahead of him. "You go
first!" he says with a toothy grin - that is a little too wide.

Pol Pot is the doorman. Typhoid Mary is the Hostess. Stalin is our Waiter.
Hitler is the chef. Pope Alexander VI says a blessing over our table. We are
the only diners, although vague, flickering shadows are constantly appearing
and disappearing at all of the tables.

Sumptuous food immediately appears on our plates (vegetarian of course,
because of Adolf) and we dig in.

Death tells all of the ways that he has visited himself to Mankind
throughout the centuries. Animals killed us humans first, then the weather,
then we got good at killing each other. Death roamed the Earth then, spreading
diseases from place to place, person to person. He brought Small Pox to the
Americas, and then just to be fair, exported Syphilis to Europe and Asia.

From the Dark Ages to Victoria's Age Dying was a relief. Death was welcome,
and had his own Cult. The end of one's life was deliverance; A release into
what people believed was going to be a better place. At that thought my
lunch companion laughed so hard that he had to use his silk napkin to daub the
crimson tears from his sunken eyes.

Death's job was on the decline though after World War I, when we humans
discovered

really super-efficient ways to kill each other, and troop transport
meant that he never even had to leave his office, while the restless microbes spread
all over the globe at speeds and levels of mortality that boggled even HIS
mind.

"But Christ, the back-up of paperwork!" And he rolled his eyes,
which then kept on rolling for awhile.

"Oh please, Eat. Do not for a second think that I would be so melodramatic
as to taint your food or drink here. Indeed you humans are doing a far better
job at that than I ever could have wished for."

"The Almighty? Pray to him all you want, but the fact is that He is a
distracted, no!

Speaking is so confusing for me: he is a diffracted fellow –
checks his voicemail from time to time, but rarely, if ever, does he pick up
and answer the line, no matter how loudly it rings."

"Mind if I smoke?"

Me: Is Death, God?

"No, nonononono. I am a natural process. The presence of God is a
privilege afforded very few. I, on the other hand, am a necessity that has a
chat with everyone, sooner or later."

Me: What is the purpose of this
lunch today?

"The fact that Death has been in decline for generations now. People
are healthier, happier and more successfully procreative now than they ever
have been before. I am….not welcome. Humans now-a-days aren’t only appalled by
Death, they are SURPRISED by me. Which seems odd, doesn’t it?" And he
laughed so hard that I thought I heard bones rattle.

"Scientists working on retarding aging or stopping Death in its
tracks? For a while there was progress made – vitamins were an amazing blow to
my business of Mortality – but now, the best minds do not go into such purely
scientific studies."

"Today, my good Man, You are taking my chances for fun away. In the
interests of profit humans have unified all of the food and drink on the
planet. One corn plant, one type of cow. One disease resistant type of
everything. Easier to control, to manage, to profit from, to depend upon. For
everything. All of your factory eggs are in one handbasket."

But," he said, brandishing a long, beautiful, bony finger at me, "By
denying Me the diverse pleasures of taking you one at a time, I see a future in
which I will take you all at once. Once those eternally restless microbes crack
the armor of that plant, that seed, that well, then catastrophic food failure
will rain down upon all of the fields of the world."

"And I," he said, crushing out his cigarette, "I will be
simply overwhelmed."

"And then, I fear, there shall be so little work for me that I shall
be – how do you say it in this quaint language of yours? – oh yes! I shall be
'laid off.'" And he tossed back the last of his wine and laughed until the
table shook.

Me: “But who would – could do
that to you? Who is Death’s boss? God?"

No, NO, dear boy, haven’t you been listening? God is a collective
abstraction, a collectivization of all of mankind’s hopes and fears. God is a
figurehead. Jesus but you people
like to Universalize things! No, I am afraid that my Boss, as you say, or more
accurately My Supervisor is a destiny far more personal than your quaint
notions of

Monotheistic Deity. The three who sign MY paychecks work
behind-the-scenes, out of the glare of the spotlights and cameras. And don’t
bother praying to them either." He shot me a sideways glance from suddenly
pupil less eyes. “They don’t even have a phone.”

"Ah, here’s my ride." And suddenly we were standing out on the
sidewalk.

At that moment a gigantic gypsy wagon emerged out of a sudden purplish
mist. Two stories tall it stood, swaying back and forth on rusty springs. The
outside was covered in animal skins, ancient weapons haphazardly tied in place,
hubcaps, and bottles of alcohol tied up with cords. The bottles clanked
together as if a million toasts were being saluted.

The wooden walls of the wagon itself were covered by layers of old posters
and peeling newspapers advertising the beginnings of wars, the end of research
budgets, a chemical spill in India, another Crusade, a circus tent fire in
Connecticut.

The purplish mist lingered. It smelled of putrefaction and cinnamon. It
emanated from every seam of the vehicle and it only reluctantly settled towards
the ground, where little tendrils of it would break away and scurry up the
sidewalk, chasing small dogs and causing all of the weeds to brown and curl on
contact.

Candlelight flickered in the large side window of the wagon, but the glass
was too beveled and crudely made to see clearly what was happening inside. I
could make out three figures though, all talking and laughing in a woman’s
voice that was simultaneously young, knowing, and ancient. No – three voices,
each taking a role.

I saw a wheel, spinning and I heard scissors, snipping. Their reflections
were enormous with the candles behind them. They could have been 10 feet tall
inside that two story tall wagon, or they could have been tiny. Even
microscopic.

I looked away and my gaze rose to the top of the gypsy wagon. Perched there
in a wooden seat was my luncheon companion, who was looking at me and smiling
the perpetual smile of one with no flesh. His superbly tailored tuxedo now
gaped and hung about his shoulders and his bony chest no longer rose and fell
with breathing.

"Thank you for a most enjoyable repast" he said, over the sound
of the cackling inside the wagon.

I smiled and removed my top hat. “Who paid the check?” I asked him.

Death laughed, and removed his own top hat. “Why you, of course, dear boy. You all pay in the end. But," he
added settling his top hat back on top of his skull and inclining his head to
me slightly, “I left you a very large tip.”

He chuckled some more as he took the reins of an enormous dead Mastodon
that was

hitched up to this Juggernaut. One snap of the long, leather reins and
the ancient beast came back to life and began lurching down the street,
dragging the creaking, groaning gypsy wagon behind it.

I called after Death “See you - later!”

Death did not turn, but instead spoke inside my mind. “…..Or sooner…..”

Angus McMahan

angusmcmahan@gmail.com

@AngusMcMahan

(Pics from my collection of images I culled from the 'Net long before I thought of attribution. Except for the two tarot pics: Those are Amber and Amanda, respectively. [VERY respectively.])

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About Angus

angusmcmahan@gmail.com

(831) 431-0636

Angus is a carbon-based, bipedal, ape-descended life form who has evolved his thumb-laden hands into two specialties: Writing stuff, and whapping on things in a rhythmical manner.

The rest of his hairy arms are now good at swimming. His legs have been running and pedaling bicycles for decades. And his enormous cranium seems to be engaged mostly in getting sunburned, playing video games, and yelling at the Giants on his TV.